


Misprints and Misconceptions

by QuickYoke



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, Snark, Weiss is slightly OCD and Blake doesn't put up with anyone's bullshit, monochrome/checkmating, some technical talk about sociology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:30:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weiss and Blake are forced to work on a project, and somehow not strangle one another in the process. Yang is the university's athletic starlette, and Ruby is the excitable engineering genius who skipped two years (though they don't show up until later).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misprints and Misconceptions

“Unacceptable.”

The woman behind the counter looked frankly terrified. Before her stood the heiress of the Schnee family, arms crossed, glaring down with a glacial mien and eyes that could cut glass.

“I’m sorry, but there’s really nothing I can do,” the woman repeated, “ _Profanity and Sacrosanctity_ is completely full. The only other course available that fulfills the same requirement is _Surfeits and Semiotics_ with Dr. Krueger.”

Pale brows knitted together, blue eyes hardening, “First you botch up my enrollment time-slot, and now you’re telling me I can’t join the class on account of your mistake?”

The woman winced; she definitely wasn’t paid enough for this, “Time-slots are handed out completely at random, Ms. Schnee—”

Weiss interrupted coolly, “Which is why I submitted an application at the end of last semester in order to avoid just this issue.”

“You say that,” the woman tried to defend herself admirably, tapping nervously at her keyboard and swiveling the computer monitor around for Weiss to see, “but there’s no record of –”

Shoving the screen back around, Weiss snapped, “Save your breath. I understand that this bureaucratic hellhole is a poor excuse for an administration department.” She jabbed a finger at the woman and leaned over the counter, menacing, “Sign me up for Dr. Krueger’s class, then. And consider yourself fortunate I’m in a good mood today.”

Without waiting to see if the woman actually completed the task, Weiss whirled about on her heel and marched away, back rigid, clutching her white leather tote bag, power-blue fingernails digging into the straps at her shoulder until the leather squeaked in complaint. She stormed down the corridor, flats clacking on the marble floors of the main university building. She’d just have to grin and bear the next semester due to some incompetent wastrel’s –

Rounding the corner, she discovered that an already sour day could in fact grow worse. A collision. A flurry of black hair capped by a grey bow. The soft grunt of another body. A wide spray of coffee. The thump of a paperback falling to the floor, pages crumpling beneath its flimsy spine.

The girl who had run into her stared from behind purple cat-eye glasses, mouth slightly open in surprise. For a moment they simply gaped at one another, hands held up as though in surrender, until Weiss growled, “Wonderful. Just wonderful. That’s exactly what I needed.”

“I’m very sorry –” the girl began, looking around for anything to clean up the mess – a brown stain already setting into Weiss’ white blazer and turquoise blouse, dripping down to her white slacks. Eventually the girl unwound the chequered black scarf from around her own neck and began awkwardly dabbing at Weiss’ chest, “I’ll pay for the dry-cleaning—”

“Don’t bother,” Weiss slapped her hands away, “The blouse is silk; I might as well toss it out now.”

“Really. That’s not necessary—” the girl began, hardly looking flustered at all. She should have at least had the decency to look chagrined, but her initial shock had stolen away behind an unreadable mask.

Fed up with fools and undesirables, Weiss drew herself up and sneered, “Just get out of my way,” before pushing past and promptly tripping on the fallen book. She managed to catch herself with a graceless stumble and a curse, but her exit was already ruined. Muttering profanities under her breath, she stomped off, trying to ignore the eyes following her down the hall.

This week couldn’t get any worse.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, she was wrong. Her week could in fact get worse. Much worse.

Mornings, while certainly not her favourite time, could be bearable given the right circumstances. With a strong cup of black tea and a light meal and fair weather, Weiss could stomach an early morning class. That morning hadn't allowed for any of those factors though, as Weiss found that she'd traitorously turned off the alarm in her sleep and rolled back over in bed, only to leap awake thirty minutes behind schedule and with barely enough time to squeeze in an essential shower before she sprinted out of her apartment and into the drizzly fall day, stuffing three notebooks and too-heavy textbooks into her tote bag. She arrived at class just in time, puffing. She could have driven, but finding a park in the student lot was near impossible most days.

A pair of mouse ears twitched at her arrival, small, round and tawny. Dr. Krueger turned his pinched face towards the new entry and smiled, “Good morning, Ms. Schnee. Please, take a seat. Anywhere will do.”

He gestured to the near empty class. Supposedly twelve students were enrolled, yet only six had deigned to make an appearance. Three snoozed all the way in the back, two sat scattered in the midsection of chairs and desks, and the last sat front and by the far window. Weiss paused at the last one. Where did she know—?

Oh, Lord give her strength.

Regaining her breath, she plopped down in the desk nearest the door and furthest from the girl by the window. A pair of eyes glinted amber in the early light behind familiar cat-eye frames, then moved back to the professor, disinterested in the new arrival.

“Now, then,” Dr. Krueger leaned his skinny forearms on the podium, “as I was saying. We will have a seminar every month, and you will each be assigned a seminar to lead in pairs. This may only be a weekly class, but don't be fooled; we will be covering a large amount of material. And if you don't keep up with the readings, I'll know,” he tapped the side of his nose, “All books and articles are listed on the course website. The articles I have linked as PDFs on the website for your convenience. While it isn't strictly necessary you purchase all the books, I highly recommend it; our library is wonderful, but some books are only available in one or two copies.”

As he spoke, Weiss withdrew one of her notebooks, jotting down snippets of information with a silver fountainpen from the breast-pocket of her coat. Nobody else took notes. The girl by the far window didn't even have a bag, only a small personal journal, a mechanical pencil and a book – a different title from their encounter yesterday.

“That's settled, then,” Dr. Krueger continued, “Now without much ado, did anyone actually brave this week's readings?”

He looked around. Weiss raised her hand. So did the girl by the window.

“But this is the first class,” one of the other students protested.

“Did you expect to review the syllabus for two whole hours, Mr. Faulk?” Dr. Krueger asked not unkindly, simply chiding, good-natured.

The student in question deflated, sinking lower into his seat and grumbling something under his breath.

“It seems Ms. Schnee and Ms. Belladonna will have to carry the conversation today,” Dr. Krueger looked almost apologetically between the two, “So, tell me: what were you initial thoughts on ' _Le Cru et le cuit_ _'_?”

“Dense,” Weiss said without hesitation.

“Insightful,” the girl – Belladonna, was it? – stated firmly in return.

“A compelling argument, but Levi-Strauss is notorious for synthesising other peoples' fieldwork,” Weiss added, never the type to be one-upped in any circumstance.

“Yes, but his argument about associated pairs of binaries structuring reality is absolutely genius,” Belladonna replied.

“His structures are too rigid,” Weiss sneered, “He doesn't allow anything to breathe, focusing too much on large systems and frameworks. His myth thinks through the person, the person doesn't think through his myth.”

“You and I both know that's merely a reaction to Freud's individualism,” she corrected calmly, “It doesn't change the fact in the slightest that Levi-Strauss' linguistic approach wasrevolutionary.”

Bristling, Weiss snapped back, “He only needs a linguistic approach because he can't do anything else. For an anthropologist his fieldwork was laughable **.** His theories are just a half-baked Saussure wrapped up with a cheap bow.” As she said that, she directed a look at the bow on the girl's own head.

A light chuckle from the front of the room snapped their attention to Dr. Krueger. He held up his hands, warding off their residual glares, “Apologies. I was merely appreciating the pun, Ms. Schnee.”

Weiss stared at him blankly.

“ _Half-baked_ ,” he grinned.

Weiss rolled her eyes, and Belladonna gave a long-suffering sigh. They looked at one another in surprise before glancing away with identical scowls.

“Youths these days have no appreciation for real humour,” Dr. Krueger pouted, “In any case,” he brightened, “I've decided: you two can have the privilege of being our first seminar leaders.”

“ _What?!”_

He continued on, ignoring their furious expressions, “The article you'll be presenting is Geertz's “Deep Play: Notes on a Balinese Cockfight.” Supplementary readings are strongly encouraged. You'll submit a 5-7,000 word report on the day of your presentation as well,” he smiled kindly at them, looking amused at their shared glares, “I look forward to a most engaging semester, ladies.”

 

* * *

 

“Unbelievable,” Weiss muttered under her breath.

She was stalking up to the library, arms held rigidly at her side. Carved in wooden panels in the entryway were a list of the names of those families who had donated to the library's construction project over one hundred years previously. Most prominent among them, right at the top of the list, was the name “Schnee” but Weiss didn't bat an eyelash. The family name was engraved on three-quarters of the university's buildings for anyone who cared to hunt them all down.

High-heeled shoes dug into the plush carpet once she entered the building proper, and she stomped over the stairs, the drama in her stride severely reduced due to the lack of the usual threatening click that accompanied her approach like the herald of some universally feared despot. When she reached the third floor, she scanned the area, spotting a familiar shock of dark hair and a bow peeking over the pages of a book.

Golden eyes glanced up, peering over her purple spectacles when Weiss stood before her, but they seemed unsurprised, utterly neutral. Weiss' attempt to loom were undermined when the other girl stood and cocked her head down at her, “Shall we?” she murmured, closing the book with a soft thump of thin pages.

Weiss said nothing, only grunted, and the two made their way to the stacks. Silence stretched between them, a vast unbreachable landscape. Together they plucked books from the shelves as they went, ladening their arms with tomes both thick and thin.

Weiss paused over one name, “Do you reckon we'll need Wittgenstein?” she braved the quiet expanse between them.

A shrug, followed by, “It couldn't hurt to include his name in a footnote.”

Weiss hummed an agreement and lay the book atop the growing pile in her arms, “I vote we take two trips to the tables, unload, then divide up the work accordingly.”

“Agreed.”

Eyeing the other girl askance, Weiss snipped, “You don't talk much, do you, Belladonna?”

“Blake.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name is Blake,” she said before hauling her heap of books away to the table she had scouted out earlier, which already held her own book and journal.

Not sure how to exactly respond, Weiss reverted to her favoured tactic when stumped in a conversation: namely, rolling her eyes and looking exasperated.

Their next trip from the stacks to the table all but cleared out the Social Sciences section, much to the dismay of one of their fellow students, whose look of despair at seeing half of the books carted away was enough to make Weiss smirk and think of _schadenfreude_. On the other hand Blake seemed to take no notice, though Weiss still got the impression that she carefully monitored her surroundings. It was her carriage, like that of a wary animal too used to too-frequent beatings from pickled owners, eyes level, stance guarded, ready to bolt or bare fangs at the slightest hint of physicality. It was only when she was reading that her shoulders relaxed, tension trickling down her spine and pooling at her feet until she sat, heavy-limbed, content as a cat curled up beside a fireplace.

It was only when they'd been hitting the books for a good hour and a half that Blake spoke about anything other than schoolwork.

“Dr. Krueger is a faunus,” she stated without preamble.

Weiss' fountainpen halted its fluid motions. Steely blue eyes narrowed in suspicion, she countered with, “I noticed.”

Blake kept on working, not looking up to meet Weiss' gaze, scanning the page open before her, hand unceasing in its record, “That doesn't bother you?”

Lips pursed into a thin line, Weiss gripped her pen tighter and turned back to her own books, “Why should it?” she replied archly.

Blake's eyes flicked up briefly to her, but her expression – as usual – gave away nothing, “Your family has a reputation.”

“Sometimes a name is just a name,” Weiss said, tart.

“And is it so in this case?”

Drawing a deep, bracing breath, Weiss capped her pen, placed it down, and turned fully in her seat to face Blake, “The stains on my family name are mine to bear, as are the tragedies. As for Dr. Krueger, I shall reserve judgment for the nature of his character rather than that of his birth. So until he goes on a puppy-killing spree, I hold neither ill-will nor prejudices. Do you require any further explanations, Your Honour?” Weiss hissed, “Or may I return to my work without fear of interrogation?”

Blake's only response was to blink owlishly at her. She straightened her glasses and replied with a calm, “You may.”

_What gall._

“Why?” Weiss shot back, unwilling to let her have the last word, “Does it bother _you?_ ”

Blake snorted. Weiss realised it was the closest she'd ever seen her come to laughing, the corners of her mouth curled up almost imperceptibly.

“No,” Blake said, attention turning back to the books, “No, not at all.”

 

* * *

 

It happened during their next meeting, and suddenly their impromptu discussion about faunus made all too much sense.

It was a Wednesday and Weiss was feeling particularly good about the day in general. She had had a morning free of classes, and therefore had found the time to clean her apartment, one of her few pleasures in life. Years ago her father had tried drilling such proclivities out of her, but even as a child she would fidget and whine until she was allowed to clean her room herself, positioning everything just so, vacuuming and wiping down every surface, then stroking her furniture with an odd look of tenderness. For a time she'd feared talk of psychiatrists, until she realised that so long as she performed every other daughterly duty required of the family heiress, her father left her well enough alone.

She had sat that morning in her apartment, white marble surfaces sparkling, drinking tea with a contented sigh, feeling nothing less than supremely pleased, and she wondered how such a fine day could possibly be ruined. Until she remembered that she was due to meet Blake at a café on campus. So she found herself twenty minutes later trudging through the crisp autumn air, peeling rotting wet leaves from her white boots with a grimace. As she rounded the corner, Blake fell seamlessly into step beside her, materialising from the thinning airs with a silent footfall.

“Christ!” Weiss yelped when she took notice of the silent shadow hovering over her shoulder, “Don't sneak up on me like that!”

Blake gave her one of those unreadable looks, then reached out.

Weiss jerked back, “What are you doing?”

Arching a dark brow, Blake plucked a red-veined leaf from Weiss' hair and twirled it in front of her face, flicking Weiss' nose lightly, “I assumed you didn't put this there on purpose.”

Cursing under her breath, Weiss batted the leaf away and ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it over her shoulder to inspect it more closely. Blake gave a soft huff of amusement through her nose and let Weiss fret over her hair until they reached the café entrance. Once there they simultaneously reached for the door handle, then froze. Weiss aimed her best death-glare over her shoulder, but was met with a stolid amber stare, intractable. Most people would run for the hills at this point, but Blake refused to budge, daring Weiss to shoulder her aside and enter first. Gritting her teeth, Weiss pushed the door open and slipped past the other girl with as much grace as she could muster, sucking in her gut to minimise any contact between them.

The line at the café was mercifully short. As they stood behind two other students, Weiss – arms crossed, head tilted back to peruse the chalkboard menu – idly asked, “What are you ordering?”

“Black tea with milk.”

“At last something we can agree on,” Weiss muttered dryly.

But Blake's attention was already elsewhere, looking down at the long open refrigerator lined with miscellaneous sandwiches and energy drinks. She stooped down to study the bottom row, which held plastic boxes containing an assortment of cheap sushi, elbows resting on her knees, tapping her lower lip thoughtfully. The pair ahead of them moved aside to wait for their orders, and Blake's head rose. Her bow snagged on a protruding shelf. With a sharp hiss, she clapped her hands over her head, but not before a fuzzy black ear popped free, flicking back to lay flat against her skull.

_Oh._

Weiss stared. Blake looked like she was ready to dive for cover from incoming shrapnel, half-crouched by the refrigerator, hands over her head. Now an entirely new emotion painted her face, broad strokes of panic, slashes of red and sickly yellow.

“Can I help you, ladies?” the café attendant asked from behind the counter, oblivious.

Tearing her gaze away, Weiss stepped up to the counter, pulling out her wallet, “Two black teas with milk. Do you have English Breakfast?”

Behind her Blake fiddled frantically with her bow, trembling fingers stuffing her ear out of sight.

“We do,” the attendant replied cheerily, punching a few buttons on the cash register, “That comes to a total of $6.50.”

Weiss handed over a twenty. Meanwhile Blake had finished composing herself, “I can pay for myself,” Her voice held a raspier timbre than Weiss had yet heard, hands clenched at her sides.

“I never doubted it,” Weiss snapped, “You can pay for us next time.”

They didn't talk about it. Instead they took their teas, Weiss holding hers gingerly between her fingers, careful not to spill, Blake clutching her own like a lifeline, and they made their way to an empty table. Conversation was even more tense than usual, and occasionally Weiss glanced up from her notebook to the bow atop Blake's head. It twitched at loud noises from the barista's corner and the slam of the bathroom door down the hallway. Blue eyes hardened to glassy points, but she said nothing.

 

* * *

 

Heavy exhalations, ragged gasps against black wire; Weiss' vision swam, the air hot, trickles of sweat tickling her temples. Everything smelled of salt and steel and acetone. Down the strip her opponent bobbed. She could see his eyes through he mask, dark shards glinting, wary. Her thighs tensed, and her blade wove a pattern under his own, delicate, sharp, half-circle movements, and when he reacted, jerking his bell guard out of line, she burst into action, springing forward, arm outstretched, body near horizontal to the ground. The buzzer crowed a point in her favour, and she was already past her opponent, flèche expertly executed. She trotted back to her place on the fencing strip, the electric wire clipped to her back slapping the wooden floor with every jogging step.

He managed to score one or two points over the remaining course of the match, but in the end the score read 7-15, Weiss winning by a landslide. They exchanged salutes, a simple nod of upraised bell guards to one another and to the teammate who had offered to act as director and keep score remotely. Tearing the mask off, she raked her sweaty fringe out of her eyes, a few strands floating free from the bun wound tightly behind her head. She tucked the mask under her sword arm and shook hands with her opponent. Normally she would have given him pointers and tips on what he'd done wrong – as was only expected from the team captain and regional champion – but instead she frowned, unhooking herself from the electric setup, and crossed over to a figure sitting on the floor in the corner, argyle stockinged legs tucked under herself, reading a book.

“I thought we agreed to meet outside at nine?” she said by of a greeting, planting the tip of her épée on the floor, hand resting comfortable curled around the French grip.

Blake turned a page, “I finished early. Besides, it's miserable out there,” she tipped her book in the direction of the rain-lashed windows, “You have a wicked parry four, by the way. But your distance needs work. You're used to foil, aren't you?”

“Excuse me?” Weiss' back straightened, “I don't recall seeing you competing in all those tournaments I won.”

Yellow eyes gazed over the top of the book, and Weiss could h ave sworn she detected a smirk. On their way back down to the book, Blake's eyes traveled along Weiss' body, taking in the all-white ensemble and the hard flush of her face and neck, rosy from exertion. She shifted under Blake's gaze, then cleared her throat, “Wait here while I take a shower, then we can go.”

“Alright,” Blake continued reading.

The other members of the club shot the two of them surreptitious glances and pretended not to – but if Blake noticed she gave no indication. Weiss, however, aimed at each of them a withering glower, and they immediately went back to fencing, throwing themselves into the activity with a theatrical avidity, as though that would help them forget that they'd been caught spying.

Weiss made her way back to the locker rooms, drawing down the zipper along her flank, running from neck to hip, and stepping out of her jacket. Once there, she shed her many layers – hard plastic breastplate, plastron, leggings, socks – tucking everything neatly into her chest-high locker and retrieving her shower kit and towel. When she'd first arrived, the team locker room had reeked, but under Weiss' autocratic fist that had all changed. Now the only thing the locker room smelled of was the clean sting of bleach.

With a sigh, she started the shower, letting her hair down while she waited for the water to heat up, white locks tumbling down her shoulders. She stepped into the hot spray and scrubbed herself down until she was pink and raw and there lingered not the faintest trace of sweat. By the time she'd finished and was zipping herself into a blue and white tracksuit, some of the other team members had begun to trail inside. Their amicable chatter cut off abruptly the moment they noticed her, and when she walked by to leave they left a large bubble in her wake as though afraid she'd bite if they drew too close.

Weiss half expected Blake to have disappeared. A long relived breath pulled from her lungs when Blake looked up at her entrance. Hair gathered up in a slick ponytail, small slithering tails of steam still curling off her pale skin, colubrine-thin, Weiss jerked her head towards the exit and Blake rose from the floor, brushing off her legs and tugging down her black skirt.

“ Where to?” she asked.

“The library,” Weiss answered.

“ It's a Friday. It closes at ten.”

“Their hours were prolonged last semester to 1am.”

“Only during finals week,” Blake pointed out.

“Shit,” Weiss swore, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger, “You live in a dorm, don't you?”

“Synergy Dorm,” Blake confirmed. They wound their way through the massive gym complex towards the exit that led to the parking lot.

“Noisy and smelly and crowded and unsanitary,” Weiss muttered a stream of adjectives like invectives.

“Can't stomach dwelling with the unwashed masses?” Blake drawled.

Glaring daggers, Weiss snapped, “Change of plans. We're going to my apartment, w here we can actually get some work done.”

“ Two questions,” Blake held up her fingers, ticking them off as she went, “Do we have to walk in the rain? And is your apartment far?”

“No and no. My car's in the parking lot. Or did you think we were walking this way purely by coincidence?”

“No limo? I'm disappointed.”

“How shall I ever survive without your approval?” Weiss retorted dryly.

“Poorly, I imagine.”

Weiss laughed, a short breathy sound, only to find Blake looking at her askance, indecipherable as always.

“I didn't know you could smile,” she deadpanned.

Bristling, any hint of mirth washed from Weiss' face, replaced instead with a chilly scowl, “That's funny coming from you.”

A black brow arched, mocking, “You need to earn my smiles.”

“Is that a challenge?” Weiss pushed open the door leading outside, and the drum of rain on cement drowned out Blake's reply. Tugging her keys from the pocket of her tracksuit, Weiss pressed a button, the lights of a sleek silver sedan flashing drearily through the downpour in reply . She didn't wait for Blake, instead made a mad dash for the car, throwing herself into the driver's seat and yanking the door shut behind her. Not long afterwards, Blake followed suit , shaking her head and wiping at her bow with small irritated huffs. Droplets of water were caught in the thick waves her hair, glistening.

“ Here,” Weiss reached into the back seat and dropped a spare towel on her dark head.

“Thanks.”

White leather squeaked as they twisted in their seats, pulling seatbelts across their chests. The car leapt to life with a quiet roar and, flicking the windshield wipers to full tilt, Weiss drove. Meanwhile Blake worried the crown of her head with the towel, nose scrunching up in displeasure every so often.

“Did your ears get wet?” Weiss asked, guiding the vehicle around a corner.

Blake froze. It was the first they'd spoken of her ears after the incident in the café, “Yes.”

“You can use the hairdryer at my place if you want,” she offered, trying to keep her voice cool and uninflected.

“That won't be necessary,” Blake replied, hesitated, then grudgingly added, “But thank you.”

Weiss just shrugged. She reached up to press a button on the sun blind folded up to the ceiling of the car, triggering the garage door of an apartment building to slide open, all glass and brushed steel.

“Let me guess,” Blake began when the car had been parked and they were waiting for the elevator in the marble entryway, “You live in the Presidential Suite.”

Rather than answer Weiss swiped a card in front of a scanner and punched the button for the top floor, eliciting an amused snort beside her. Swift, the elevator climbed, doors opening with a pleasant bell tone. They stepped out into a snowy landscape, the suite sparse and white, interrupted by the occasional cool blue accent or loud flare of a red cushion here and a red and turquoise painting there . A glossy flat-screen television broke the line of sight, a wide plain of dustless black.

The lights turned on when Weiss walked into the room, flooding the place with a dazzling automated brightness, “We'll work at the dining room table,” she pointed towards the dining room which opened into a spotless, high-walled kitchen, “I haven't eaten dinner – do you want anything?”

“Just tea,” came the reply. Blake moved to place her journal and book down, and sit at the long white table, while Weiss began rummaging around the kitchen. The clanging of copper-based pots and pans followed by the beeping of a steel black stove. Blake waited quietly, the two of them not exchanging a word; she took the time to survey the apartment, studying the abstract red Pollock painting, eyes lighting up upon spying a floor to ceiling bookshelf built into the far wall, complete with a ladder leaning against a rail to one side. Chair scrapping on the marble floors, she stood and made her way over to investigate and examine their spines. Wafting in the air, the smell of melting cheese and cream and pepper, but Blake ignored the gnawing in her stomach.

“You have a half-decent collection,” she admitted when Weiss emerged from the kitchen with a wide bowl of pasta and a cup of tea.

“Is that a compliment? I feel faint,” Weiss sat, twirling her fork through the bowl, and passed the tea over.

“Alfredo?” Blake asked, sitting back down directly across from her partner, pulling the tea towards her and cradling it to her chest with both hands.

“ It's quick and easy,” Weiss said, blowing on a swirl of pasta wrapped around her fork before stuffing it in her mouth.

“And also incredibly unhealthy,” Blake added. She watched Weiss eat, seeming to completely forgo the need to blink.

Weiss rolled her eyes, “I just worked out for two hours. I think I can handle a few calories. What? Did you think I only ate salads and rabbit food?”

“I should hope I'd hardly given any consideration to your eating habits at all.”

Weiss paused and squinted at the girl across from her. There was an innuendo in there somewhere, she just knew it. But Blake's face remained as stoic as always – she might as well have been carved from rock. Mouth twisting into a petulant scowl, Weiss continued to eat.

When she finished her meal and made to clean the dishes, stacked neatly in her sink, Blake interrupted with, “Do them later. You already wasted enough of our time.”

Weiss' hand clenched around the steel wool scrubber as a mother would her infant, “Why the rush? It's Saturday tomorrow.”

“D id it never occur to you that I might have plans?” Blake said.

“No. I'm afraid my first thought was ' _I'd like to not fail a class based on a presentation in the second week._ ' ” Yet Weiss still put the steel wool down, though with a torn expression, “I was going to drive you home, anyway. Or – God forbid – you can actually stay the night. My couch isn't lumpy or uncomfortable in the slightest."

Blake shot a frown over her shoulder at the couch in question – an impossible pristine white suede monstrosity dominating the sitting room, clad in twin red pillows and a turquoise blanket folded and draped over the back – and muttered into the brim of her cup, “Probably because nobody actually uses it.”

“What was that?”

  
“Nothing,” Blake sighed and sipped at the last dregs of her tea, “Fine. Let's just...get to work already.”

 


End file.
